


Words worth a thousand paintings

by MooseMan



Category: Original Work
Genre: Comple, Complete, School Project, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseMan/pseuds/MooseMan
Summary: Luke’s dad is dead. And all he got out of it was a crummy old broken down house.





	Words worth a thousand paintings

The only thing given to Luke in the will was this old slightly crumbly house tucked away between growing developments of apartment buildings and shopping centers. He picked his way up the overgrown driveway and worked the key he’d been given into the lock. For a second, it resisted until Luke gave it a solid twist. The deadbolt slid out of the way with a clunk. Some of the glass in the window to the left of the door fell out. His brother had driven away laughing in a vintage car that would be worth millions to the right person. His sister had gotten most of the cash fortune. And poor old Luke was stuck with a house full of junk. 

A thin shower of dust greeted him as he jerked open the door. Luke hadn’t been to see his father in a while, he’d died before he plucked up the courage to visit him again, but he could still remember what he’d been like when he was younger. Darren had been a pretty influential man when it came to bioengineering; he’d helped discover a way to powering things without eating up more of the ozone layer. Turns out, he hadn’t really given up the habit of building things. Piles of scrap metal clogged the corners and counters of the room and spilled over into the walkway like roots protruding from a well traveled walkway. Luke stepped around the pipes and closed the door behind him. The afternoon sun sliced through the room between the holes in moth eaten curtains, highlighting the stationary dust particles hanging in the air. 

Not like Luke had known Darren very well before he died. Once he got out of his father’s house, he really hadn’t looked back. His father’s favourite child had always been science. Luke and his siblings were just additional things to take care of from time to time. From the look of the place, it seemed like caring about himself was just a luxury too. What he assumed to be the living room had more than a dozen cobwebs strung around the fan and the sagging couch was positioned facing the window instead of at the bubble tv. Luke brushed over some magazines with an inch of dust nestled happily on top and more scraps. He pulled the curtains back to the dismay of the spiders living in the folds. At least the backyard wasn’t too wild, just a once over with a lawn mower would fix it right up.

Luke had been more upset with himself over how little he cared about his father’s death than the actual death. Then again, it was hard to feel bad for the guy who, when asked “can I get this Hot Wheels?” by a six year old, responded with “only if you have your own money.” Who says that to a child? Darren, apparently. Luke wasn’t brave enough to check the bathroom just yet, so he moved on to the upstairs. 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” 

“What?” Luke had been around twelve or thirteen at the time. Darren peered over the newspaper he’d been reading. 

“I asked what you wanted to be when you grew up.” He absentmindedly grabbed his coffee from the table, but Luke could feel there was more intention behind this question than he was letting on. 

“‘I’m twelve, dad.”

“Right, right.” Darren had turned back to the paper in his hands. “I was just curious, that’s all.” He reached over and ruffled Luke’s hair. 

Luke had always wondered what his father had meant by that. There really hadn’t been any follow up to it, unless you count the job listing paper he’d left on his bed two years later as a ‘follow up’. He was standing on the landing of the second floor now, which only had three rooms and the entrance to the attic. The first door on his right he could open no problem, although it only led to a room of cleaning supplies and toilet paper that all seemed to be fresh. Luke sighed to himself. Selling this place would be one hell of a task. Maybe it would just be easier to let them bull doze it and make another apartment complex over it. It would be a weight off his shoulders. 

He jostled the handle of what he assumed to be another bathroom only to find it locked. That was strange, everything else in this place looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. Luke honestly didn’t want to think about the implications of that though. Instead he went over to the last door and twisted the knob. It refused to give until he threw his shoulder into it. The light that hit him was a soothing dull yellow. A small lamp with a stained glass shade was perched on the table beside a well made bed. The sheets were a pale almost sickly yellow while the blanket was a nicely woven pink fleece. Two doors were to his left, one probably to the bathroom he was in front of earlier, and on the right, he noticed sheets draped over five objects hanging from the wall. Darren also had a mini fridge set up in here. 

The oddest feature by far were the pieces of orange paper taped everywhere with bold shaky letters scrawled over them. Some were by the bed, others on the dresser, the door to his left and on the fridge, and when he looked back there was even one on the door. 

_ Darren, don’t leave. As much as you want to, you are much safer in here. Trust me, please.  _

That was… odd. Who had been taking care of his dad? And why would he tell him to stay here? 

Luke decided to push in further. 

The note on one of the other doors just said  _ Bathroom _ as he suspected. The ones on the bedside table were also pretty simple, just some instructions on some pills he had to take and a reminder to check the fridge and call if there wasn’t any food left. Another note on the fridge said the exact same thing. Luke did in fact check inside. 

It was empty.

The other door on the left had a note that said  _ memory closet _ . It was locked. Luke decided it was best to move over to the things on the wall instead, since those had drawn most of his attention. The first sheet he pulled down revealed a canvas. Staring back at him was a detailed painting of his younger sister, smiling with six pieces of paper taped to it.

_ This is Lucia.  _

_ She is your daughter, and she visits most often _

_ She brings you food  _

_ She is a software engineer _

_ Remember to thank her. _

Luke ran his hand across the papers. Was someone coaching his father on how to act? Was that even his father? He shook his head. No, of course that was his dad, maybe old age had worn away at his manners. He moved to the next and pulled it off. The sulking eyes of his younger brother glared past the canvas, slouching in the paints.

_ This is Marcus. _

_ He really likes your car _

_ He only comes if Lucia makes him.  _

_ You love him anyway.  _

_ Remember to tell him you love him. _

This was all pretty standard stuff. It was just weird that it had to be written down like this. He’d have to contact his caretaker later and ask about it. The third portrait was, with little shock, him. His painting looked… scared. Or maybe confused. It was a mix of the two. It was pretty accurate to how he looked otherwise. 

_ This is Luke _

_ He’s your oldest son _

_ He never visits, or calls. But that’s okay.  _

_ You still love him. _

_ You are proud of him every day. _

Pangs of guilt twinged at his gut. For the first time since the announcement of his death, Luke felt his conscious sneer at him for not trying to talk to him more. Darren- dad was proud of him. He clutched the sheet closer to his chest. “I’m sorry…” Luke didn’t know who he was talking to exactly. He folded the sheet and placed it below the portrait before moving to the next one. He had a hunch as to who it would be. 

His mother’s loving eyes met the light as the sheet fell away. She’d been caught mid laugh, holding onto a floppy sun hat as it blew in the ever blowing wind. 

_ Julia was your wife. _

_ You haven’t seen her in a while.  _

_ But that’s okay. You’ll see her soon.  _

The last line left a pool of dread leaking into his chest. The annoyance he’d entered the building with was all but drowned and gone. But there was one painting left. Luke had to finish what he started, his curiosity wouldn’t let him rest until he finished. He reached up and pinched a fold of the sheet between his thumb and pointer finger. But who would it be? Or, what? Luke swallowed and began to lift the sheet.

Darren sat behind the painting, arms folded in his lap as he stared out in some sort of tired happiness. The edges of the canvas were crowded with dozens of orange slips of paper, each folding over the other. Luke began to press them down, trying to read them. 

_ This is you, your name is Darren Membrane.  _

_ You’re writing these notes to yourself. _

_ You have three lovely kids _

_ Remember to make sure the sink in the bathroom isn’t running. _

_ Remember to shut the window before you sleep or you’ll get bugs. _

_ Please stop forgetting.  _

_ Make sure the tags on your clothes are in the back. _

Luke covered his mouth. His vision began to blur a little before he blinked. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he stared at all the notes around the room. There were so many… 

He heard something clink against the floor when he moved the sheet. A bit of investigation led to the discovery of a small brass key with a label  _ closet _ . Did he dare, though? Luke turned the key over and over between his fingers. He just had to keep going. 

The lock undid with a ca-chunk and the door creaked open. It only got louder when he pushed it, so he slipped in as soon as he was able to fit. 

The closet had shelves on both sides, a small window peering out into the overgrown backyard. The shelves on the left were full of canvases and paints and brushes. Closer to the window, canvases were propped up and shoved back. What looked like people were dashed across the front, and the closer to the front they were, the less detailed they were. On the right were piles and piles of newspapers sorted by date and genre, some marked with red tape to indicate some sort of importance. And at the end in front of the window was an easel. The canvas was filled with the image of the backyard, and a blue note was taped to the edge. Luke carefully stepped his way down to it. It felt almost blasphemous to make noise in this room. 

_ You are going to die, Darren. But you’re okay with it. Try and finish this painting first. _

He looked over the painting. It looked like he’d started painting something in the backyard- the vague shapes of people were dried against the backdrop- but never finished. Luke could take a guess what he was trying to paint though. He looked around the room for a moment   
and then he picked up the paintbrush.


End file.
